


Uncharted Territory

by J_Baillier



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate universe: Black Mirror: "Hang The DJ" retelling, Angst, Bisexuality, Drama, Drunken Kissing, Dystopian Dating, Future Tinder from hell, Homophobia, Humour, John is a stubborn idiot, Johnlock goes on a blind date, Loneliness, M/M, Near Future, Romance, Sci-Fi, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a cynic, Technology, Three Continents Watson, different first meeting, sexual identity crisis, smatterings of Mystrade, you can blame Charlie Brooker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-08 16:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13462500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: The System puts people through a series of assigned relationships in order to determine who their Perfect Match is. John believes that it works; Sherlock really, really doesn't. One of them is probably going to be wrong.





	1. You Give Love A Bad Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/gifts).



> This is a loose retelling of the Black Mirror episode "Hang The DJ", but reading this does not require being familiar with the episode in any way.
> 
> Dedicated to Swissmiss, an industrious and wonderful advocate of quality Sherlock fanfic.

 

> _This is not allowed_  
>  _You're uninvited_  
>  _An unfortunate slight_  
>  – Alanis Morissette

  
  
John breathes out nervously and straightens his tie even though he knows glancing over his shoulder and shifting around will eventually make it a bit crooked again.

He's had four assigned relationships already. Nobody he has talked to has had more than that, which must mean that five's the charm – five is when The System takes you out of the dating pool.

His last one had been.... let's just say thank fuck it had only lasted a week. John has no idea what pearls of wisdom The System thinks it could have gleaned from such a debacle. Maybe the purpose of that mismatch had been to bring out John's worst qualities so that they could eventually match him with someone who would bring none of those out. As for Adeline, John certainly hopes that the way she had behaved during that petrifying week does not reflect _her_ best qualities.

He drinks a mouthful of the white wine that has just been delivered. It's a bit overkill, really, that they're not even allowed to select their own dinners. At least he's got a say on the drinks. He has no idea why he'd even picked white wine. He prefers beer or spirits, or red wine in a pinch. Who is he trying to fool? He knows nothing about wine, and assuming a woman would be favourable towards a man drinking white might just be highly stereotypical. What if his date – his next _relationship_ – is some sort of an expert on wine? He could learn, couldn't he? It could be something to do together.

At least it would pass the time, listening to someone yammering on about their hobbies. The one before Leah hadn't known how to talk about anything else than dogs, on which John isn't keen. The sex had been good, though. Once the dog talk was over, they'd managed three rounds in the seven hours their relationship was to last.

John digs out his Console – an oval, plastic PDA-like device – from his pocket. Before activating it, he hunches over as though all the other the people in the room still waiting for their next relationships aren't doing exactly the same.

He knows he won't be stood up, The System guarantees it, but it's still embarrassing to be sitting here waiting while most other tables are already occupied by two people.

He addresses the Console. "Coach?"

"Yes, John?" a metallic, vaguely female voice answers.

"How long do I have to wait?"

"Apologies for the delay. Congested traffic has affected timetables. Under such circumstances, recalibration of relationship expiry date will be performed if necessary."

"Right." This reflects what John had read in the contract he'd signed: if either party is delayed, ill or otherwise indisposed, the System would make sure they got to use their allocated relationship time some other weekend and adjusted the end date.

Back when John had been a university student, it had still been popular to actually _date_ : to pluck up the courage to ask someone out, set up a meeting with them hoping that they would enjoy the plan one had made for the evening, to try one's luck regarding whether that person was interested enough to have sex while trying to predict how long they'd want to wait for that. It had all been messy, inconvenient, unpredictable, potentially mortifying, and the outcome was never guaranteed.

He remembers when The System arrived. Government-commissioned, designed by award-winning neuroscientists and based on the most complex algorithms ever created by man, it was supposed to stop people from wasting time and money on relationships that would never work. Some had initially viewed the whole thing as an unnecessary frivolity, but to John it had made sense that humankind would pour the height of its genius into ensuring its survival. It was about lowering the skyrocketing divorce rates. It was about longevity and keeping families together, about the perfect match. _Stop wasting time looking; let science find what you need._

Five years ago, the System had become free of charge, but after one signed the contract there was a big fine if they quit mid-process. John certainly could never pay such an astronomical sum. Besides, after attending sixteen weddings in five years and not having seen a single divorce among those couples, he was convinced that the system worked – and envious of those already reaping its benefits.

The contract he'd signed practically guarantees a match for everyone. The participant pool is big enough, now, for a 98.2% match rate. Some are delaying enrolment, hoping that the algorithm will eventually reach a 100%, but for John the current number is good enough. With traditional relationships borne out of luck and coincidence and risk-taking and lots of people not knowing themselves well enough to pick a suitable partner, no wonder that the divorce rates had been so high before. If The System can find a match for Harry that has made her so happy that she has quit drinking, there's got to be hope for everyone. John hardly thinks he's the world's most difficult man to find a match for.

Julie sure as hell hadn't been it. Three months of hideous body odour and the stench of Doritos; being nagged at in her strange, nasal voice; having to pretend to be interested in EastEnders and being forced to tolerate her utter humourlessness. John doesn't like to think he's shallow, but some things can certainly be deal breakers.

He realises he has accidentally packed his watch in his suitcase. Apart from an old-fashioned wrist or pocket watch, the Console is the only time-measuring device he's allowed to carry, and it will only tell him one thing regarding schedule: the Expiry Date of the relationship. The timer marking it will, however, only be shown if both parties of the same relationship choose to reveal it simultaneously.

John sips his water instead of the wine, not wanting to be tipsy by the time the person who could well be the future Mrs Watson arrives.

He glances at the maître d' posted at the entrance. Three people have just walked in. One of them is a blonde woman in a striking red dress. Voluptuous curves, too. There's also a woman decades John's senior, who is scrutinising her Console – she must have requested to see a photo of her date. Sure enough, she soon spots her potential beau sitting at a corner table by the fountain. The third arrival is a tall man who is also holding his Console as he stands next to an elaborate flower arrangement near the entrance. John promptly ignores him and follows the woman in red with his gaze instead.

John's Console bleeps discreetly. "Your next relationship is approaching," it tells him.

Shifting in his seat, John straightens his back, hopes that his jacket doesn't look too crumpled or his jeans too worn.

The woman has now alerted a waiter and is showing her Console to him. The waiter points in the general direction John's table is in.

 _Here we go._ John tugs at his tie to make sure it's absolutely straight.

The woman in red strides towards his table---

\---and walks right past it.

John's head snaps around just in time to see her trying to attract the attention of a spectacled man sitting alone at a velvet-upholstered booth near the back wall.

"Coach?" John asks, pressing down on the surface of the Console to activate it.

"Yes, John?"

"You said that my relationship has arrived."

"That is correct."

"But--- she's just walked right past me."

"Please rephrase query."

John leans against the back of his seat and tries to relax. Maybe his date has simply slipped into the loo from the entrance. First impressions are important, which means that he shouldn't be seen talking to the Console. John promptly shoves it into his jeans pocket and occupies himself by watching the people still on the move around the restaurant. Some are standing by the bar, talking; some are already leaving, some even hand-in-hand.

The man who'd arrived at the same time as the woman in red is still standing close to the entrance. He looks to be concentrating hard as he scans the hall, so he must be still looking for his date. His eyes happen upon John, who gives the man a brief, sympathetic smile; they must be feeling the same nervousness.

John expects the man to shift his gaze away but he doesn't. Instead, his expression shifts to a determined one. Soon, he's headed straight towards John's table.

 _Great. Just great._ John curses inwardly. There goes his first impression, if Mr Male Model is hanging about.

"Evening," the man says, standing stiffly by the table where a waiter would usually position themselves. He has a nice voice – honey-glazed baritone. His suit is so form-fitting it looks painted on, and his blackish curls are criminally well coiffed. Any woman who gets matched up with this guy will be happy.

But, John quickly needs to get rid of him. "Look, mate, my console's saying my date's here already, so I can't sit around keeping you company."

The man frowns, and his strange, pale blue-green eyes feel as though they're piercing right though John. "Excuse me?"

"My match for tonight. Maybe the _final_ one, even. She's here, so you need to---" John nods towards the back of the restaurant. He then leans away from the table to glance around the man, desperate for a glimpse of a standing woman standing surveying the crowd.

There is no one walking or standing around looking like they're searching for someone. All the tables are now occupied, and waiters have begun delivering starters.

Undeterred by John's dismissal, the tall man takes a seat opposite him. "That must have been at an attempt at humour. Apologies if it has eluded me. I have been reliably informed that catching on to such things is not my forte."

John stares at him, then sighs. Should he call security? He's got dating business to attend to, and if this idiot has decided to latch on to him because he needs advice or a thumbs-up so that he can get on with his own date, John's not going to be his hand-holder. This man has got a Console with his own Coach just like John does for all that.

"Can't take a hint?" John hisses. " _Get. Lost_."

The man blinks, and his carefully constructed air of aloofness seems to crack just a little bit. "You're not allowed to decline. It's in the contract."

"Decline what? Letting you ruin my date?"

The man now looks thoroughly confused. "I'm sorry, I----"

John had sworn that he would stay in his seat and he'd let the women find _him_ , because it sort of gives him a nice upper hand, but it can't be helped. He's going to bring up her picture on the Console, go to the entrance and find her even if he has to circle the restaurant hall a dozen times.

John fishes the Console out of his pocket, presses the surface. "Coach?"

"Yes, John?"

The man at the opposite side of the table is watching him with increasing apprehension.

"Bring up the photograph of my next relationship, please."

"Yes, John."

The round screen covering the surface pulses with white light as the image loads.

Across the table, the idiot trespassing on his evening has dug out his own Console and is turning the similarly loading screen towards John.

An image appears on his own console – the photograph of a man with dark curls and pale, sea-glass eyes.

When John looks up to see his intruder's Console, it's like looking in the mirror. The image the trespasser has received from The System----

\---is an image of John.

John stands up, frantically looking around to make sure no one has seen or heard any of this. This must be a mistake, a fucking embarrassing one, and he is definitely going to file a complaint. He's in luck that his real date hasn't arrived yet – maybe he can still sort this out and pretend it never happened.

As much as he tries to avoid looking at his strange table companion, their eyes meet and John is surprised by the badly concealed hurt he sees. "Look, there's been some sort of a mistake. We'll contact the admins or the helpdesk or whatever this thing's got and sort it out. We're in the same boat, obviously, sorry about that," he says quickly.

He activates his Console again. "Coach?

"Yes, John?"

"There's been a mistake. I've been mismatched."

"The correct identification has been made."

"Maybe, but the _match_ is wrong. It's obviously wrong. I'm not---" he coughs, " _I'm not gay,_ " he whispers from behind clenched teeth, lifting the device close to his lips and meticulously avoiding looking at the tall man. "Get me the helpdesk or something."

"The Administrative Department is available from Monday to Friday between 8 am and 3pm."

"Please confirm identity of next relationship."

"The correct identification has been made."

John drops back down onto his seat and gives the man opposite him a stern look. "You try," he demands.

"Coach?" his false date asks his own Console.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

John raises a brow. _Jesus, what a name._

"Please confirm the name and bring up the photograph of my current assigned relationship."

"Watson, John Hamish. Image updated."

The man shoves his Console across the table, and John finds himself staring at a picture that must have been snapped by the security cameras mere _seconds_ ago.

It's undeniably him. He looks angry in the photo.

He _is_ angry.

"Coach?"

"Yes, John."

"Please confirm name and update image of next relationship."

How about a Mary? A Jean? A Caroline? Within seconds, he'll know, and this will all be over. The photo will be updated and everything will be fine.

John holds his breath.

Then, his Console speaks again: "Holmes, William Sherlock Scott. Image updated."

To John it feels downright disturbing to see the photo, since it's identical to the sight of the man sitting right _there_ right _now_.

" _Fix this_ ," John growls into the Console.

"No system malfunction detected. Correct identification of next relationship has been made. Please enjoy your evening, John."

A waiter appears, carrying two plates. The one placed before John contains a fantastic-looking steak. The plate given to the man opposite him – with that weird name, _Sherlock_ , of all things – contains what looks like a complicated thing based on root vegetables and a lamb chop.

John never orders a starter. Apparently, neither does _William Sherlock Scott Holmes_ , who isn't making a single move to pick up a utensil.

John wastes no time in picking up a fork. Despite his anger, he's hungry. "Look, um, Sherlock? We'll sort this on Monday. Let's just eat and then go our separate ways. I'm sorry for this. I'm sure it's as embarrassing for you as it is for me. I'm not gay," he says with an apologetic laugh that slips out like a cat through a flap and makes him feel like an idiot.

"Well, _I_ am," Sherlock says dryly. He's biting his lip.

John realises he needs to salvage this. "I didn't mean--- look, it's fine, it's _all_ fine. Looks like they've got a bug in the code and the one you were supposed to meet is probably equally disappointed right now. I'm as sorry as you are, mate, that you got stuck with me instead. 98.2% and not a hundred, eh?"

"Perhaps."

"I'm sure whoever they were supposed to pair you up with completely different and much posher than me," John offers, even though he has no way to know such a thing. It's not like his own short-term matches have been all that great. But, that's how The System learns – through non-functional matches, it calibrates itself closer and closer to finding the perfect one.

"How many have you had, before this?" John asks.

"This is my first."

"Well, there you go: no harm done. Nobody gets the forever one as their first. I've had four and believe me, I'm not going to miss any of them." Well, one of them, Leah, had had the nicest rack John has ever seen, but still. A bit lacking in the personality department.

"I'm very sceptical as to whether this actually works," Sherlock says coldly and fork-lifts some carrot bits into his mouth. "I'm here to prove a point, that's all."

"To who? Yourself?"

"My idiot older brother. He's head over heels for the person The System assigned him as the perfect, forever one. I wouldn't be surprised if it didn't last the first year. He's convinced the success rate is as good as a hundred, even though that defies the laws of statistics when taking into consideration several variables relating to---."

"Alright, so you're trying to prove to big brother... what exactly?" John interrupts.

"That most likely I _cannot_ be matched. That I am simply too difficult to live with, too set in my ways, too incapable of taking into consideration the needs of others."

"Let's not start with that, eh, when you do actually meet your first assigned relationship?"

"So, I should lie? Pretend that I am not who I am?"

"No, that's not---"

"Isn't the entire point of The System to help people avoid wasting time on archaic rituals of courtship and having to keep up appearances?"

"Maybe it's a bit about that, but mostly it just, well, works." John shrugs and rips off a piece of baguette.

"How? How does a computer algorithm define what or who would make someone happy?"

"Well, compatibility," John explains and downs half of his remaining wine.

"What does that even mean?"

"Well, they do the DNA testing to discern those personality traits that are determined genetically, look at our educational and employment and medical records, and then put us through different relationship scenarios to assess those behavioural models that are formed by life experiences."

"And you're happy replacing your naive, romantic notions of love and companionship with that?"

"Sounds like you aren't," John points out.

This seems to make Sherlock thoughtful. "Those things have eluded me all my life. I doubt a computer designed by the same humans who have not seen me fit to participate in interpersonal relationship before could suddenly find me a... match." The last word is spoken with obvious disdain.

"Isn't it a relief, though, that there's a 98.2% guarantee that they will?"

"What is left for the remaining 1.8%, then?"

"God, you're great at raining even on your own bloody parade."

They continue their meals in silence.

Were this a regular date, John would have already walked out and gone home, but the System dictates that every new relationship starts here at the Compound. They will spend the entire weekend here – or less, if the Relationship Expiration Date so dictates. Unless there's a medical emergency, they are both stuck here until Sunday evening or however long this mistake is supposed to last, so John might as well eat and make use of the accommodation assigned to them.

There will be a double bed, of course. Thankfully, there's also going to be a sofa.

There's also going to be Sherlock with his blatant superiority complex, looking as disgruntled as he is right now.

"The lamb is slightly overcooked," Sherlock says. "One should hope dessert will be of higher quality."

"You've got a sweet tooth, then?" John asks. He usually just has an espresso to keep his date company while they enjoy their dessert.

"Perhaps," Sherlock says primly. John wonders if he'll be this withdrawn and mysterious with his ridiculous cheekbones on every date, or if his dismissive attitude is due to being just as put off by this system malfunction as John is.

John snorts. "At least the food here is very good in general. It's way better than the way people had to do it before The System – you had to pick a restaurant and hope it wasn't something your date hated or could give you food poisoning."

"Our parents managed without The System," Sherlock points out and shoves most of the snow peas on his plate to the opposite edge of the plate.

"Yours still together?"

"Yes."

"Hmm." John's father had been... a bastard, for lack of a better word. His mother had been... so in love that it had overridden her sense of self-preservation. It just goes to show that if people are left to their own devices, they might follow their hearts to ruin.

"I wonder where our real dates are right now, and if they'll be paired with us again. Maybe what happened tonight---" John waves a fork at Sherlock, "is going to make the system recalibrate and create new matches."

"It hardly matters, since I won't be doing this again."

"How are you going to prove a point to your brother if you don't follow through with the process?"

Sherlock regards him tiredly. "I should think pairing me with a man declaring himself to be straight quite conveniently proves my point. Shouldn't you agree?"

"So, you'll go back to... doing it the old-fashioned way, then?"

"I don't date, John. I consider myself quite married to my job."

"Which is?"

"Consulting detective."

"That doesn't even mean anything. Is that like a private detective, or---"

"I do take on occasional private cases, yes, but mostly I work with the Metropolitan Police. That's what makes this idiotic so-called _perfect_ match of my brother's so irritating: it happens to be the Detective Inspector who is my most regular contact at the Met. I wish to hear of his love life as little as I wish to be absorbed in my brother's. They are _in love_. It's utterly abhorrent."

To John his bitterness sounds a bit excessive. "It's hard to tell why some people click and why some don't. At least The System gives you a framework, a bit of safety."

"Despite all that perceived safety, it seems that people still feel the need to deceive, obfuscate and pretend on first dates, even though they are guaranteed their potential companions won't walk out on them after fifteen minutes. People still _lie_. At least _you_ do."

John swallows and wipes his mouth with his linen napkin. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You're pretending to be more gastronomically cultured than you actually are in order to impress someone even though such things are either of no consequence to a purportedly perfect match, or do not matter in the slightest because the one you are trying to woo will depart from your life after an expiration date. That wine is a disastrous choice with your main course."

John glares at him. "You don't even know what this wine is, plus I ordered it before I even knew what I was eating! Even I am _cultured_ enough to know that the old saying about reds with meat and whites with other stuff isn't that simple."

John had read this gold nugget of wisdow read in in The Times yesterday. "For all you know, this could be an expert choice."

"You are quite right regarding that oversimplified pairing rule, but I would still say pairing a _dessert_ _wine_ with any main course is a recipe for disaster. I can see by the flow patterns left on the rim that the sugar content is high, and the tiny granules left on the side are a tell-tale sign that that it has gone through chaptalization – meaning that they've added sugar or honey before fermentation, as opposed to unfermented muss being added after the process. The colour of it points to the _Botrytis cinerea_ fungus being used rather than picking the grapes after the first night frosts, so it must be from a damp, probably moderately warm climate. As I said, obviously a dessert wine that would never serve a main course well. As for what _should_ be paired with your entrecote; this is where my expertise runs out, I'm afraid; I do not drink wine. I only make a habit of knowing the chemistry behind it.

"That was---- _amazing_ ," John can't help admitting.

"That's not what people usually say," Sherlock replies with a slight quirk-up of his lip and pushes his half-eaten plate away. He seems to be in slightly better spirits now that he has had a chance to show off his knowledge base.

"So, is this what you do on first dates instead of lying and pretending, then? Embarrass people?"

"As I said, I don't date."

 _I wonder why_.

"Ever?" John plucks up the courage to ask.

"What's it to you?"

John realises he's right. It's none of his business, but he's still curious. Surely Tall, Dark, Handsome and Rude here has had some interest from the opp--- _same_ sex?

A waiter collects their plates, and Sherlock props his elbows at the very edge of the table, steepling his fingers so that the tips of his forefingers rest briefly on his lips until he crosses his arms.

"It surprises you, then, that it's not the guiding light of everyone's life, following biological urges?" Sherlock enquires.

 _This guy's certainly not a romantic._ "Let's just look at this like a weekend trip, eh? Make the best of it? On Sunday, we'll go our separate ways, on Monday we'll call Customer Support and sort this all out and get on with our lives."

"I have no interest in talking to some idiot rep. The bet I took with Mycroft was that if the system fails, he will pay the penalty and stop insisting I have to attend family gatherings where he and Lestrade are together."

"That's your boss, then, Lestrade?"

"He's not my _boss_ ," Sherlock replies snootily. "I'm a freelancer, so he's merely my contact."

"The police doesn't consult amateurs."

Sherlock looks scandalised. "I proved to you not five minutes ago what I can do. The police don't consult amateurs, but they do consult me."

"Alright, that was amazingly clever, but how does that solve crimes?"

"I notice things that others don't, because most people never learn significant skills of observation or deduction. It's like you're blinkered, seeing only the easy and the obvious. I have educated myself in forensic medicine and technical crime scene investigation, and together with an eidetic memory and formidable intelligence I _do_ solve crimes."

"You're also really, really modest," John laughs. His annoyance at the whole situation is waning; at least this _Sherlock_ is interesting, when he's not being a dick. "Do you want to know what I do for work, then?"

Sherlock looks bored. "I hardly need to ask. You're a GP, although you have been something else before, likely a surgeon since a doctor in a conservative field wouldn't have to change specialties due to a shoulder injury. You were in the army, and I'd say it's likely that's where you were injured. Your tan lines have faded almost completely but that doesn't matter since the only significant military conflict area the British have been involved with during the past three years is Iran. It's been about two years since you were invalided home; you had probably waited with this whole dating thing until you found a job. You're keen to impress beyond your abilities, and your outfit is a combination of old, worn but lovingly patched-up things and a new jacket you're trying to preserve in as good a condition as possible since you likely put a significant sum from a pay check to it. You have dated before, significantly, but you are now keen to fulfil the bourgeois expectations of this society by finding your perfect match and settling down. It's just that doing so may not be what you want."

John scoffs. "What _do_ I want, then?"

He should leave, throw the dregs of his supposedly abysmally paired dessert wine on the lapels of this conceited berk, but something keeps him in his seat.

Why isn't he leaving?

Maybe because he can't help being curious, and Sherlock certainly isn't done picking him apart: "You want to be surprised. You want to not know what happens after you wake up in the morning – why else would you have wanted to join the army even though you were already a part of a profession that offers quite a comfortable existence? You're spluttering your indignation at not having a date with the woman you were expecting, but your curiosity was piqued enough to stay seated – you embraced the change the moment it became apparent the date you had imagined wasn't going to happen. You're flexible and able to function well if things do not go the way you expected. Good in a crisis. Fearless. Slightly prejudiced, though."

It sounds as though Sherlock is trying to convince him he wants to be here, but the man's tone doesn't fit. He sounds as though he's just spouting out facts – making deductions based on what must be guesswork or very flimsy clues.

The strangest thing is that he looks as though he's actually nervous about John's reaction to his words. Why? What does it matter? Why would he say such things, and hope for a benign reception?

_He really has no idea how to behave on a date, does he?_

When the waiter returns to inquire about more drinks, John treats himself to a brandy and his usualy espresso; Sherlock declines the offer completely. He does soon receive a handsome portion of a lusciously moist chocolate cake.

"What is it like?" Sherlock asks in between forkfuls of cake. "Going through assigned relationships with a deadline?"

"Weird, at first. You really start guessing what's going to be the thing that makes you go your separate ways."

"Do most people check the expiration date, do you think?"

"It has felt like the thing to do, every time. Who wouldn't be curious? The latest point when I've checked mine was about eight hours after the start of the first relationship." After the horrible time he'd had with his first one, John had been quickly to suggest to the dog enthusiast that they check their right at the start of their first date. He'd been relieved that his second relationship was due to expire no later than after seven hours. After they'd parted ways, John had been transported home, where he'd watched movies and eaten takeaway. It had been a nice weekend, all in all, especially since the sex had been great. Maybe the not-seeing-each-other-again-after-tonight had helped them both to promptly shed their inhibitions.

Sherlock is wearing a frown. "To me, checking the Expiration Date feels like a self-fulfilling prophecy. What if you don't want to leave early from a weekend with someone, or want to see that person again? And, even if you do, you will be left with the nagging feeling that you just haven't realised what was wrong in that match."

"You'd put that much stock on intuition? That spending a single date or a few days with someone you picked by chance could give you as good odds to a long relationship as the algorithm that sports a nearly perfect track record?"

"You obviously trust the algorithm."

"You don't, even though it sounds like you might be a man of science."

"As opposed to the worlds of physics and chemistry, I have always found human nature illogical and unpredictable. Not even my own emotions work the way I would wish for them to function – or _not_ to function. Sentiment is dictated by so many variables; as much as I'd like to believe it's just hormones combined with personality traits the compatibility of which could be calculated by a computer, it is my experience that it is much too complex for its fate to be outsourced to a thinking machine."

"Sounds like you'd like to be one of those yourself." John downs his espresso. "A machine."

Sherlock has now scraped his plate clean of the whipped cream that had been on top of the cake.

It's time for them to leave the restaurant. There is no check to be negotiated; it's all pre-organised. There will be a transport waiting for them.  
  



	2. Temptation Waits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I can say is whoah and thank you. Chapter title borrowed from a song by Garbage. Fic title borrowed from Alanis Morissette's "Uninvited". All the clever dystopian stuff shamelessly borrowed from Charlie Brooker *tips hat*; I just stirred in some fresh johnlock.

  


> _Like any uncharted territory  
>  I must seem greatly intriguing_  
>  – Alanis Morissette

 

"At least that'll get us out of this party quicker than a pumpkin," John jokes when their unmanned golf kart screeches to a halt in front of them.

Sherlock is blinking at him, utterly bewildered.

"Pumpkin?" John asks. " _Cinderella_?" he adds when no light of recognition dawns on Sherlock's features. "Fairy tales?"

"I've deleted most of them. Is this something you tell all your dates, some sort of a cookie-cutter cultural reference designed to exude old-fashioned chivalry?"

"Never the bloody mind," John mutters as he opens the door.

Sherlock hunches down to avoid knocking his head on the cart door and takes a seat. John climbs in after him.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
Their accommodation for two nights is a small cabin. It's always either that or a hotel room in the Compound. John quite likes these cabins; they're located in the middle of lush woodlands, and they offer more privacy than the rooms. The cabin furnishings vary in colour, but the decor is always generic; it works like hotel chains that look the same everywhere in the world. Maybe some people enjoy such reassuring familiarity, but John likes a bit of variation when he travels. Learning about the locals and life on the other side of the world had been the best part of his stint in Afghanistan.

The number illuminated on the touchscreen lock is the cabin their cart stops in front of is 221, which makes John wonder how many thousands of people are on the grounds tonight since the Compound has at least eight hundred rooms on top of all these cabins.

Sherlock gets out of the cart first, eyes narrowed as he takes in the scenery. John wonders of this might be less luxurious than what Sherlock is used to when travelling. If his brother would have no trouble paying the exorbitant penalty fee, maybe they're both loaded. Sherlock's obviously bespoke suit fits that picture perfectly.

 _Still, who wouldn't like such a place?_ John wonders as he steps out of the transport and rolls his shoulders back. It's only slightly chilly since it's still late August. Delicate mist hangs in the air and gives the Japanese-style stone lanterns along the pathway soft halos. Warm light is streaming out from between the curtains of the cabin, and soft music is drifting out from somewhere. There's probably also going to be a log fire. There's been one every time, so far, when John has been assigned a cabin.

It all appears to be designed for both maximal comfort _and_ romance. The latter will be completely wasted on the two of them tonight, of course, but John decides that he won't let it matter – he'll treat this as a nice weekend out of the city. The cabin's entertainment system will be well-stocked with films, the walking routes along the grounds are just what the doctor ordered for someone who lives in a cheap bedsit in a dull London suburb, and there's always plenty of high-quality food in the fridge. It seems that the government is really banking on the System producing lots of future taxpayers.

Sherlock places his palm on the electric lock, and the door clicks open quietly. John trails in behind him.

This cabin is a bit different to the one John had had last time. Instead of light wood and neutral, bland colours, the furniture consists of nearly mismatched antiques. Thick oriental rugs cover an oak floor, and glassware and curiosities such as a stuffed otter and a collection of minerals are among the things used to decorate empty table spaces. Instead of feeling like a hotel, to John, the place feels... cosy, in an odd but delightful way. He decides he loves it despite it strangeness; loves how it feels like someone's home full of things collected along a life well-lived.

John would never assume such a style would be something that Sherlock – with his obviously extravagantly expensive haircut and snooty attitude – would enjoy. But, John's guess seems to be wrong, since Sherlock wastes no time in taking over an armchair, kicking off his shoes and tucking his ankles under his bottom. It looks almost like the chair has already moulded itself to his contours.

John picks up the champagne put into ice in a cooler on the coffee table. Even he can recognise it's a prohibitively expensive one, which is surprising: the last time he'd been here there had just been soft drinks, and a carton of orange juice shoved to the back of the fridge.

He asks his Console to relay the time, and it turns out to be nearly eleven in the evening. Thanks to having to wake up at six every morning to grapple with London commuter traffic, John often drifts off in front of the television at this time. Were he on an actual date, he would have no trouble staying up later, but maybe he could use this misfiring weekend to look after himself a little.

Still, they shouldn't let that champagne go to waste. It could be a nightcap since the ice would have melted by morning. "I'm not letting that bottle go to waste," John announces while opening the glass doors of a cabinet to look for champagne glasses.

"By all means," Sherlock tells him dryly, scrutinising the climate control remote.

John eventually finds two tulip-shaped glasses, but unlike the champagne glasses he has seen before, these have no, well, _legs_.

Sherlock notices his confusion. "The stems of traditional champagne glasses do nothing for the taste. Those are a recent Riedel model designed for maximum stability; strangely enough, they didn't see fit to actually enhance the glass shape. The opening should be wider, some experts say, but there's still considerable controversy around the subject. The flow physics of odour chemicals round glass airspaces are quite complex."

John has little to add to that. "If you say so." For someone who claims they don't drink wine, Sherlock certainly is a know-it-all. John has a hunch that it probably isn't limited to alcoholic drinks.

They need to decide who sleeps where. "I don't know about you, but I might turn in at some point soon," John says as he pours the champagne.

"I rarely sleep, especially if I've got a case on."

"That works for me," John replies. Looks like he might get the entire bed to himself, then, if Sherlock-the-insomniac wants to sit around all night judging other people.

Their bags have been delivered before their arrival, and they're waiting in the bedroom's spacious walk-in-clothes closet. John hasn't brought many toiletries, since all that they will need is always provided in the form of a formidable selection of luxury products, including at least a dozen different varieties of bubble bath. John digs out his toothbrush, puts it next to the bathroom sink, then returns to the sitting area to sip his glass.

Sherlock is looking out the window into the darkness. It's odd to see such complete blackness instead of the murky twilight of London where there's always at least some light making sure one can't see the stars. John offers Sherlock another glass as full of champagne as he had dared to fill it. The man accepts it, but instead of lifting it to his lips he places it on the coffee table.

John takes his own glass out to the veranda. It has a modern, stiffly moving swing set designed for two. John downs half of his glass before considering taking a seat since he doesn't want to spill it. The fog has left the bench damp, so in the end, he decides against placing his bottom on it.

To his surprise, the door clicks open, and Sherlock joins him, champagne glass in hand.

"I thought you didn't drink," John teases him.

"One shouldn't waste Dom Perignon. I recognise the artistry required for the making of fine wine even if the taste is not something I would ever develop a craving for."

The night sky is beautiful. John had been a member of the astronomy club at school and learned to recognise a great many of the constellations. "That's Ursa Major – The Big Bear," John points out, pointing the forefinger of his hand holding the glass upwards.

"It could be a whole lot of other things, as well. Human pattern recognition is very subjective."

"You never see the sky like this in London. Do you live there?" John asks. He's not sure from which areas this System Hub gets its clientele.

"I rent a flat in Marylebone for a very reasonable price, since I helped the landlady once with her husband's execution in Florida. It was one of my first cases."

"You prevented the execution?"

"I _ensured_ it," Sherlock corrects and finally sips his glass.

John briefly disappears inside to refill his own, already feeling the warm buzz. He used to have much better tolerance booze before his Afghanistan deployment. What is more, anything with bubbles has always tended to make him tipsy quicker than anything else. He now feels slightly less awkward in his current company. "What would you be doing, right now, if we weren't here?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Assuming I wasn't working, I might be doing research. Perhaps an experiment. I might be playing the violin, to the great joy of the neighbours."

"Depends on how good you're at it, I guess."

"I have been informed by them that skill level matters very little at four in the morning. What about you?"

John would want to be able to reply that he'd be out with friends, but ever since he came home with his tail between his legs and his shoulder ruined, he hasn't felt like reconnecting with people. It had taken long for him to consider dating again, and truth be told, it would be logical that he'd prefer to stay in with someone to going to a noisy bar. A someone he doesn't really have, that is.

If he's honest, what he'd most want to do with his free time is something... different. He had been hoping that this new person who was supposed to arrive in his life tonight might have a hobby they could share – something to break the monotony of going to work and then sitting at home.

John decides on a bit of honesty. "The System's been lining up the relationships so quickly one after another that I'd probably be here or at home twiddling my thumbs and waiting for time to pass so that the relationship I know is not going to last would end."

"Life is short," Sherlock points out. "It sounds like a grand waste of it to be forced to endure such practice rounds first before embarking on a relationship that has a chance of lasting."

"Look," John says, "I didn't invent this shit, and I'm not in the mood to keep defending it. I get it: you're only here to prove that it's all a big joke for people who have not had your great revelations about human nature and romance. But, something's still telling me that---" John hesitates, the alcohol slowing down his ability to assess whether what he's saying might turn out to be very insulting, indeed.

"Yes?" Sherlock challenges. He doesn't sound angry; instead, he's clearly very curious – as though he genuinely wants to discuss this further.

When John has been nice to him – trying to behave as he would on a regular date – Sherlock has been dismissive and belittling. Now that they are having a more honest conversation, he seems to have changed to something approaching civil and interested in what John has to say.

John almost feels as though Sherlock had been prickly to protect himself. _Fair enough; I did tell him to get lost._ "It just makes me think you're still going to be the one who ends up alone," John says. He downs the last of his second glass, then blinks as his vision swims a little. The warm buzz of the champagne is now intense but still feels pleasant like a cocoon he wants to share. He'll still have to slow down if he doesn't want to end up nauseous.

"I don't need your pity, John Watson. I live the way I do because it's a path I have consciously chosen to avoid pointless emotional turmoil. Unlike you, I don't have a need to fulfil the expectations of others – to act out some role still assigned to a heterosexual male in this day and age."

"Ha! That's right because you're not. That."

"How astute. I did tell you as much."

"Exactly," John concludes. "Maybe I want those things that are in that role that you just mentioned, you know," John insists, waving his glass in Sherlock's general direction.

Sherlock's sea glass -coloured eyes are now intensely focused on him, starlight reflected on the black of the irises. Against the backdrop of a meadow dimly lit with the lanterns, John is forced to admit the company he's reluctantly keeping looks... _beautiful_. It's the only word that comes to mind.

Like Caroline had looked. Like Suzanne had looked. But... more? Maybe it's because he's a man and John isn't used to associating such a thing to blokes.

If he lets himself really think about – and the champagne is certainly helping with that – Sherlock looks beautiful like James had looked ten years ago.

But, it doesn't mean anything, because it _can't_ mean anything because John has decided that it _shouldn't_ mean anything. He's already had four relationships starting in this place; The System has lined him up with four women. He likes women. He _loves_ women. Whatever else he thinks or feels is nothing but idle thoughts.

"Maybe I like being those things that you were talking about."

"Do you?" Sherlock asks quietly.

To John, he sounds more sceptical than anyone who doesn't even know him has any right to be, yet John feels like he has been stripped bare. Who is this bloody git who thinks he's got a right to mess with his head? Is this a sport for Sherlock, trying to make him second-guess himself? Does Sherlock make a habit of trying to seduce people who are really not looking to date a man?

Then again, John doesn't feel like he's being seduced. They're just talking, and as far as he knows, Sherlock thinks relationships are for idiots.

They're just being curious about each other and wanting to be comfortable around each other since they're sharing a room for two days.

"I'm getting cold," John announces, makes a tactical retreat back inside and drinks the last of the champagne straight from the bottle before discarding most of his clothes and getting into bed.

He must have dozed off since eventually he groggily stirs back into consciousness.

The mattress has dipped next to him, which must have woken him.

At first, John thinks he's still in the flat owned by his last relationship, and it takes a moment for his still thoroughly drunken world to shift from fantasy to reality.

He sits up. Thank fuck he'd worn his T-shirt to bed; otherwise, his scar would now be in plain sight.

The lights are dimmed, but an electronic panel on the wall is glowing. Sherlock is sitting on the opposite side of the bed, his fingers dancing along a keyboard that has appeared on the screen.

"What are you doing?" John asks.

"There must be a WLAN hub here somewhere, which might allow access to the internet if I can get past the firewall. The accommodations must be connected to the outside world since our Consoles work here as well as they do in other parts of the compound, assuming they don't have inbuilt 6G chips. I want to check my email to see if there's anything new there I could work on."

"You can't do police work from here." John tries to signal with his tone that he'd prefer solitude instead of having to become an accomplice to a midnight hack.

"I have solved several cases via email alone," Sherlock points out, clearly annoyed. "I have to admit The System's cybersecurity department does know what they're doing, unlike MI5."

"You've hacked into MI5?" John is too drunk, and Sherlock has already proven to him how smart and how odd he is, so he isn't exactly surprised.

He should be put off by the fact that there are illegal things happening here. Maybe Sherlock is right: maybe he does like surprising things and adapts well to change. He likes that description. It makes him sound.... not middle-aged.

"My brother effectively runs MI5, and he is certainly no IT wizard. He once actually asked me what I thought of their security system, and I told him installing one would be a good idea. He wasn't amused."

"Do you spend a lot of time with your brother? I mean before he got together with that guy."

"I try not to."

"Not besties, then?"

"I do hope you don't have an awful habit of repeating yourself. I don't do _'besties_ ', or _'friends'_ , or whatever people have."

"What _do_ you have, then, if not friends?"

"People who assist me with my work sometimes, because they're obliged to do so. Enemies."

"Enemies?"

"I meet a lot of unsavoury characters in my work, as you can imagine."

"God, no. Yes, I mean, I can believe that, but no, I don't think I know what that's like."

"You couldn't since I'm the only consulting detective in the world. I invented the title."

"Right."

Sherlock continues typing but soon closes the console with a huff. It seems he has been beaten by The System's architects, after all. He stands up and idly paces a circle the room before digging out his Console. John realises he hasn't changed out of his posh suit; John had at least discarded his dress shirt, jacket and trousers before taking over the double bed.

"Coach?" Sherlock asks, and his tone clearly signals that he considers needing the services of a disembodied computer voice distasteful.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Explain what I am supposed to do now."

"That choice is entirely up to you and your partner. Do keep in mind that consent for intercourse must be fingerprint-signed into the Console by both parties. Security cameras are in use in all areas."

John thinks he can see Sherlock turn towards the bed to glance at him, but can't make out any details of his face in the dark.

"You could have asked me how it works," John points out and tucks his hands under his pillow. "I've done this a few times already, you know." Not that his past experiences would be of that much use, now. _Why does Sherlock even think there's something he's supposed to be doing? He truly is new to this, isn't he?_

"Are you referring to assigned relationships or sex?

John's eyes go wide. "Relationships! Well, both, but I'm not saying we---" God, he really isn't. He really, really, really isn't.

"I assume intercourse is what most assigned partners would have engaged in by now, as facilitated by the alcohol." Sherlock makes it sound like going to the dentist.

"Not always," John hastens to insist. At least Sherlock hadn't sounded like he'd be interested.

Maybe Sherlock is asexual. Maybe John isn't his type. Or, maybe he truly doesn't want a partner.

Still, John can't seem to get over the idea that someone might _choose_ loneliness.

Maybe Sherlock doesn't even call it that. Maybe he doesn't think that way. Still, there's his biting tone and his bitterness towards the whole thing and the way that he's going through all of this just to get back at his brother for--- what? Finding happiness with someone?

Even though he wouldn't want to, he remembers how Sherlock had looked when he'd sat down at the table. Aloof, with a carefully constructed smile, but not... dismissive. Not withdrawn, not in the way he had become after John had made it pretty damned clear Sherlock wasn't who he would have ever expected.

What if Sherlock had actually thought he might have a chance, but when that chance was trampled on by his date turning out to be John, he'd lost whatever little confidence he'd had and given up?

Has John put this man off people entirely, now?

_How sad._

"What's sad?"

John is startled. Did he say that out loud?

"Me. I'm sad."

"You don't sound sad. You sound inebriated."

"It's just---" _God, I should just shut up._ "I was going to meet my match tonight. It's going to happen soon, anyway. It doesn't matter if it's delayed a few days. But you---" he points at Sherlock in the dark, "you won't even try. You've given up. That's what's sad."

"If someone will never be good at something, why waste time beating their head against the wall trying?"

"How do you need to be good at this? Nobody is. If people were good at this, what the hell would we need The System for? It's not a bloody competition. It's just people, you know. Being yourself with people, and one day one of them will really like it. Will  like you, I mean."

"I have been told that the best way for me to alienate others is to be myself. You are good at this, clearly, since you are getting through the programme and about to meet someone who you are convinced is going to make you thoroughly and disgustingly happy in the way bourgeois normal people are capable of being. I bet you have dated the old-fashioned way as well and succeeded in your conquests."

"Is that your way of saying I'm some sort of a--- what?" John challenges him.

 _Three Continents Watson_ , they'd called him in the army, and he hadn't liked it; what's wrong with having a bit of fun? John doesn't think he deserves to be berated and belittled by someone who doesn't know him at all!

Yet, Sherlock makes him feel like he does. Like he sees something---

"If the shoe fits," comes the slightly amused reply.

John rolls his eyes and clicks on a lamp on the right bedside cabinet. "Christ. You have no idea what you're talking about, but you'll still put down anyone who does. Stinks to high heaven of overcompensation, if you ask me."

Sherlock's jaw drops a little. Maybe he's not used to someone countering his barbs; it seems likely that people might be quite intimated by him normally.

Finally, Sherlock composes himself and retreats to the sitting area. The bedroom is separated by a partial wall, so there's no door between them, but there might as well be.

John thinks he can practically _feel_ an icy glare through the wall. His bladder is killing him, so he drags himself off to the loo.

He considers what he could do with his time tomorrow. He's free to take off on his own, make use of the extensive grounds and the sports facilities. The pool section is particularly nice. Sherlock can go do whatever he wants. Mobiles and computers are banned during these weekends, but if he gets sneaky and creative, maybe he'll be able to build something out of spare parts that'll allow him to solve these cases of his online.

John tries to find the idea at least a little funny as he washes his hands – that everyone else here is having a lovely time while Mister Genius sits in a corner doing crafts out of a decommissioned alarm clock or something – but instead, he feels guilty.

 _Haughty tosser_ , he tries to dismiss in his head as he returns to the bedroom. _Holier-than-thou know-it-all_ , he adds, but still it's awfully tempting to peer around the separating wall to make sure Sherlock hasn't left or that he isn't looking completely crestfallen.

John knows he's still drunk. He knows he should sleep. Yet, _because_ he's drunk, which makes him curious and persistent, he decides to talk to Sherlock some more instead.  

Sherlock's head snaps up when John wanders into the sitting area in just pants and a T-shirt. It's warm enough for that, thanks to the log fire.

"If you're about to try to convince me again how I'm throwing out the chance of a lifetime by not going through with this charade, don't bother," Sherlock comments.

"Who made you like this?" John asks incredulously and drops down to sit on the sofa. He notices Sherlock has rummaged around the fridge and placed an arrangement of chocolate-dipped fruit and berries on the coffee table. _Definitely a sweet tooth._

_Comfort eating?_

There's a superior snort. "What, you think my rationality has been borne out of some soppy love story where someone broke my heart and now I'm determined never to give it to anyone ever again?" The gaze Sherlock directs at John is world-weary, and his posture has lost its regality.

John spreads his hands in a prompt for Sherlock to answer his own question.

"You don't know me, John, and it's obvious you don't care to. Let's just get through this and go our separate ways," Sherlock pleads. It seems that he's somehow threatened by John's reappearance in a way that's strange. It's as if Sherlock is desperately trying _not_ to give him any chance in hell of making amends for their rocky start.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to put you on the spot. I didn't find a soulmate on my own, either, you know. I'm aware that most people do this, now, but sometimes I feel like it's like having the training wheels on, you know? Safe in a way that's a bit boring?" John suggests.

 _Sherlock isn't boring_ , John thinks. Sherlock doesn't belong anywhere where things are safe and easy. It's just that John thought that's exactly what _he_ has been looking for.

Why can't he let this go? Sherlock isn't his responsibility.

Sherlock isn't... for him. Sherlock isn't _his_. Sherlock is nobody's. Why does that bother John?

The log fire crackles. Sherlock eats a chocolate-covered strawberry. He doesn't seem keen on continuing their conversation.

John feels spontaneous, carefree and oddly good and guilty at the same time. The last time he'd felt like this was when he'd snuck out of barracks with James and went skinny-dipping in the freezing pool near the obstacle course.

John realises that when he had told James that what was between them would be over before it had even properly developed into anything substantial, that he wasn't---- well, whatever James had thought he was, the man had looked exactly like the droopy spectre on the sofa across the coffee table.

Why does that bother John? They'll never see each other again after this. Nobody returns here, once the perfect match is made. This is an alternate dimension, a place out of time, _what happens here stays here_. This isn't their real lives. What transpires here is just a test run, a simulation – just The System gathering data. The details don't matter; what matters is the outcome.

John likes to think he's a good person. A _nice_ person, if a little impatient and quick-tempered and routine-averse. He's a good person, but he will not _feel_ like one if this is what he leaves behind and goes to hog the entire duvet again.

"Don't you miss any of it?" John asks. "The everyday stuff of having someone there? Hugs. Kissing. Don't you ever want to, you know?"

"' _I know'_?" A sceptical brow is raised. "For a person who is a physician and hell bent on ensuring their chance of procreation, I'd expect you to be able to say _sex_."

"It's not every day I ask a stranger about it."

"Although I have been told I'm terrible at assessing such things, this is a disconcerting conversation."

"This is what guys do, isn't it? Talk about stuff, when they get together." He almost says _talk about women_. What is it about Sherlock that makes him constantly tongue-tied? It can't just be the copious amounts of champagne.

" _Kiss and tell_ , as the adage goes?"

John decides that Sherlock is exceptionally good at stalling and misdirecting, but such things only make John more curious. "Who was the last person you kissed?" he asks.

It's a stupid question, especially now, but someone needs to make conversation, and it's this damned place, really, the entire thing is a reminder of why they're all here, so it's no wonder all these dating--- _things_ are on his mind. He also had _maybe_ sounded a bit... prejudiced, being so rude to Sherlock initially. Maybe he ought to have been appropriately flattered that the computer... system... thing would pair him up with someone who is, objectively speaking, quite fit and nice-looking.

Sherlock's expression is difficult to gauge. "Eight months ago, a woman. It was for a case."

"Do you often kiss people for these cases of yours?"

"I do not often kiss people, period. I have kissed two women for cases and one man who insisted on it although I can't say it was entirely reciprocal on my part."

John finds himself sad again. "Can I kiss you goodnight?" he asks Sherlock, then wants to clap a hand on his own mouth because it had run off and left him behind. _Goddamned champagne._

He tries to convince himself he hadn't been thinking about it in any cerebral sense of the word. It's just a thing that came out of his mouth.

_It doesn't matter, what happens here. Sherlock doesn't have anyone now, and at this rate, he's never going to find that person._

This is not a pity thing, this suggestion of his. During university and army, John had actually tried never to get this drunk, because it makes him reckless. It makes things surface which he has tried not to think about because they're not relevant. He likes women, he really does.

He looks up from the coffee table where his eyes had wandered during his feverish processing of the nonsense that his brain is producing today, and is reminded that Sherlock is still sitting there, opposite him, his skin glowing as it reflects the light from the fireplace. Looking at him, really _looking_ at him as though trying to decide if he is being ridiculed.

"If you're trying to prove something to yourself or me, don't bother," Sherlock says.

John is convinced he should sound more dismissive, that his words should be more of a warning, but something is softening Sherlock's tone, twisting it to something that has a whiff of the same recklessness and challenge that John is feeling.

A hope?

A curiosity?

A part of John wants to flip a finger to The System by fulfilling this lopsided, false match: for them to swipe their fingers so that their fucking consents – _literally_ – will be recorded, and everything becomes just a blip in a computer system, a series of ones and zeroes, a readjusted expiration date while the System tries to desperately work out what to do with their recklessness and the things John now remembers he has once wanted. _For fuck's sake, this whole thing is a farce!_

A part of him wants to try this just one more time because maybe, just _maybe_ it wouldn't feel as good as that one other time that had filled him with such shame and fear that he had never spoken to James again.

He wants to kiss Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock looks away, and John realises he's too slow. Whatever reply Sherlock had expected, he hasn't gotten it, so he has now stood up and seems to be heading for the bathroom.

John scrambles to his feet, grabs his wrist and forces him to turn around. Standing on tiptoes – _Goddamn he's tall_ – he slides a hand to the back of Sherlock's head. He tilts his head, juts his chin out just so, lets his lips part just a bit – _muscle memory, this is how it works, this is how it's best_. Focused on doing instead of thinking, it doesn't sink in what he's doing – what _they're_ doing until a fumbling hand slithers under his T-shirt and soft lips are crushed against his.

John's fingers grip the soft curls within his reach, his other hand reaching to steady Sherlock's arm so that their balance won't tip since they're leaning slightly to the back of an armchair. Sherlock tastes and smells faintly of cigarettes, of dark wood, of dust, cedar and the chocolate in his dessert, the champagne and a man, most definitely a man, and John has never understood how much he could like this. How he's allowed. That he could allow _himself_ this.

He lets his heels descend, and it's a soft landing, a gentle parting of skin. Without thinking, drunk now not only on champagne but also on all this newness and danger and the way Sherlock seems to have knocked the breath out of his lungs just by existing, John strokes his thumb across that cupid's bow, those soft lips, before dropping his hand.

Sherlock is standing there, frowning, blinking, looking at him, looking right through him as though the sight of John is a bit too much right now. Staring, and staring and _staring_ so hard John starts to fear he has broken this man.

"Goodnight," Sherlock spits out and walks out of the cabin door into the night.

John cards a hand through his now Sherlock-messed hair.

"Fucking hell," he tells the chocolate-dipped apple slices on the table.

 

 

 

 


	3. This Romeo is bleeding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was asked on tumblr if there is a juicy playlist available songs I've used as writing inspiration for this fic, and [there sure is](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL7Qnlx_ZUABVmoiaM7S34yVhu3IdzpbAM).

> _I don't think you unworthy  
>  I need a moment to deliberate_  
>  – Alanis Morissette
> 
>  

 

John has no idea where Sherlock had slept. He doesn't know _if_ Sherlock had slept. He has no idea if the man had stayed out all night. All John knows is that he has just woken up to a sudden sound that had probably been someone banging a drawer shut in the kitchen area.

He has a pounding headache, there's a rotten taste in his mouth, and he probably needs to put together a generalised apology for last night. Some of the details are missing from his memory, but he does remember the proverbial climax. He would prefer not to examine why last night doesn't entirely feel like the idiotic drunken mistake it should be categorised as.

He should definitely apologise but not mention any details. Sherlock will remember them anyway since he'd been annoyingly sober.

John drags himself out of bed, does a shuddery stretch by raising his arms above his head, then grabs one of the two fluffy bathrobes hanging from a hook near the bed.

By the time he pads into the kitchenette, he hasn't managed to string together a single sensible sentence. Sherlock closes the fridge door and turns to face him. He looks utterly... neutral. Nonchalant. Uncaring. Polite.

John decides to let himself off the hook. Maybe it's time to pretend he didn't get mortifyingly drunk last night. Time to pretend none of it ever happened. If it works, then he'll be spared of the embarrassment of verbalising any of it. If not, he'll just have to bite the bullet.

They share a nod. It seems that neither knows what the appropriate greeting would be. They find toast, and John is grateful for the strong tea that is already waiting in two steaming mugs.

"I never understood the term 'hung over'. Over what?" Sherlock muses sometime later when they're both preoccupied with toast and marmalade.

John downs half his tea on one go. It's strong enough to wake the dead. "Any plans?" he asks.  

During the train ride yesterday, John had scrolled through what his Console had been able to tell him about all the activities available. Couples' massage. Group yoga. Horseback riding. Canoeing. Guided nature walks.

In his current state, John would have hoped that there would be a sensory deprivation tank and a bucket of aspirin on offer as a package.

"There's a lecture by an art historian on how to spot fake 18th-century oil paintings. I have no idea how they pick these things; perhaps a significantly large group of this weekend's attendees are humanist academics," Sherlock says. His breakfast sits mostly uneaten; mostly he has just been pushing his piece of toast around on his plate with his forefinger.

Sherlock is wearing a slightly less form-fitting but still admirably tailored suit. John decides to go for his old jeans and a jumper today. There's no way for Sherlock to pick apart that outfit as something pretentious. John had brought some more dress shirts, but there's no reason to bother with anything stiff like that now that this is decidedly _not_ a date.

This is not a relationship. This is two people, forced together by a bug in a computer code.

Sherlock opens one of the newspapers delivered to the cabin, and John is glad for the fact that it forms a visibility obstacle between them.

A thought occurs once the tea begins clearing the cotton from John's head: how is this different to how The System always works? Sherlock had called the Expiration Date a self-fulfilling prophecy. Couldn't it work a bit like that, announcing that someone is your perfect match? Won't that make people try harder, give them confidence that they can overcome any relationship problems? What does perfect mean, anyway?

What if someone's perfect match dies? The User Agreement says that you only get the one during one lifetime unless there's a technical problem. What are those left behind supposed to do? Try to find solace in what they had once had? Settle for someone less perfect? John has read that many of them start dating the old-fashioned way, and many find new partners among other survivors. It feels logical: part of it must be peer support. But can it ever be as good as it was with The One?

He shouldn't let Sherlock's cynicism get to him. After all, the man's own brother has found a match through The System. For all John knows, Sherlock is just a bitter idiot.

"Have fun, then," John says, puts his mug in the sink, and goes to put on his clothes, planning on leaving the cabin as soon as possible.  
  


  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
  
Sherlock doesn't return to the cabin that night. There are lounges and reading rooms in the Compound, presumably for people whose relationships expire before the weekend is due and who decide to stay for the duration instead of heading home. An Expiration is the only way one can get a transport before Sunday evening.

John has spent his Saturday swimming, watching a film while trying to ignore all the foreplay going on among the couples in the same matinee, and ransacked the cabin's snack collection. In the evening, he'd gone for a walk after feeling stale after so much salt and his lingering hangover.

At least he manages a good night's sleep. In the morning, he wakes up to the sound of the front door opening.

Sherlock slips in to collect his things from the walk-in closet and gets startled by John's bleary _'hello_ ' from the bed.

"Our transports are due in half an hour," Sherlock reminds him.

John checks his watch. "Right." It's an old thing, and this is not the first time his alarm has betrayed him. "Did you walk from the Compound?"

"No; as you must know one can request one of those carts from the reception to get back." Business-like, nonchalant, cold; his tone is something one might use when answering a stranger's query about which direction the trains from a Tube platform go.

 _It never happened_ , John reminds himself. _None of it._ He physically shakes his head to stop staring at Sherlock's lips.

The air in the cabin feels cold when he gets up. Perhaps the heating gets turned off before check-out time.

Sherlock sits on the sofa while John packs his things, perking up every time there's a sound outside the door. The carts are electric, so they are quiet. They never arrive until the very last minute at check-out time, but since Sherlock hasn't been here before, his behaviour is understandable.

Regardless of whether a relationship expires during a weekend, there are always two carts per cabin on Sunday at noon because it's not often both parties of a relationship live in the same area. The carts take them to buses which then get dispatched to different areas of Greater London. The relationship parties then have three days to arrange co-habitation.

It's odd, how little the users know about The System. It's supposed to be non-profit, and there is no competition, so why the secrecy?

It's probably a security issue. Some terrorist could hack it, scramble the algorithm and cause mass disgruntlement by pairing up the wrong people. _Psychological warfare._

John smiles and shakes his head at such a silly idea. Then again, something _has_ gone wrong with The System, since it has paired him with a man. Is it trustworthy enough, if this can happen?

He really needs to talk to Tech Support. He'll do it first thing in the morning before heading in to work.

He throws his last remaining belongings into his duffel bag just as the door lock chimes a ten-minute warning. They don their coats and go outside to the veranda to wait for transport.

"Well. Alright, then," he says to break the uncomfortable silence.

Sherlock replies with a non-committal hum.

John has the sense that he's supposed to say something more, to lighten the mood, since he's the one who had embarrassed himself. "You want to have a laugh?"

"What do you mean?"

"We could check the expiry date. See how messed up this thing actually got."

Sherlock doesn't look enthusiastic about the idea. If anything, he looks quite grim, but John decides he has no way of knowing if the man is in a bad mood or if that's his default. He reminds himself that he knows nothing about Sherlock Holmes beyond what it feels like to kiss him, and he will continue to know nothing about him for the rest of his life.

Maybe this will be a funny story he can tell at his wedding; the glitch that delayed finding his true love. The mistake. The error. He'll skip some of the details when recalling the tale, of course.

He watches as Sherlock carefully retrieves his Console from his pocket. He continues to look reluctant. He glances at John while worrying his lip, then gently swipes a finger along the surface of the lentil-shaped Console to activate the fingerprint identification.

John activates his own, and they both address their virtual Coaches to request the Expiry Date. They both have to sign consent with their fingerprints at the same time to be revealed the downward-counting number.

"Ready?" John asks.

Sherlock nods.

The white plastic pulses with light, and then blinks into life again.

John expects a counter, but there is none.

There's just a text: ' _Congratulations, John! You have encountered your Perfect Match_.'

His stomach twists, even though it shouldn't mean anything. He should have known from the posh champagne and the customised cabin. They should have deduced this.

John doesn't feel like laughing. At most he manages a tight smile he knows must look very fake. "Should have guessed," he finally comments. "It's completely wrong. Maybe it's a computer virus. At least the User Agreement says they waive the one-perfect-match rule if there's a technical issue. What's yours say?"

Reluctantly, Sherlock extends his palm, in the middle of which his Console sits.

 _'Congratulations, Sherlock! You have encountered your Perfect Match._ '

A whiff of relief flushes through John. This has to be conclusive evidence that it's all a big fuck-up. "You see? They never get it right on the first go. How would they be able to pick the perfect one, if they didn't see you interact with other relationships first? No one can have such an obvious match that they'd hit the jackpot on one go. _No one_ ," John assures him.

He's assuring himself, too. He wants to tell Sherlock to have another go at it; to call the helpdesk in the morning to have them reset whatever has gone wrong. It can be fixed. Both their consoles saying the same thing proves that this must be a mistake.

The golf carts arrived. John half expects Sherlock to throw his Console into the low ditch next to the path, shove his bag to the cart and leave without a word.

Instead, he turns to face John again, squinting in the bright sunlight and extends his hand to John.

After a moment of surprised hesitance, John takes it. Their fingertips meet, slide across one another's finger joints, fingertips finally pressing into knuckles. It feels just as soft and captivating as Sherlock's lips had, two nights ago.

It shouldn't feel like this. It's just a handshake. That message on the screen must be fucking with their heads. Or, maybe it's just John's head. He needs to get out of here.

Yet, he doesn't let go. Nor does Sherlock.

"To the strangest of times," Sherlock suggests.

"You can say that again."

Sherlock's grip loosens, falls away and John has no excuse anymore to hold on.

He watches Sherlock climb into his cart and wonders why the thought of never seeing him again feels so... _final_.

 

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

John repositions the phone on his ear. "What the hell do you mean that _'there's no mistake_ '?!"

"What it says on the tin," the voice at the other end of the line says. "The system was working perfectly on last Friday, Saturday and Sunday. A match was for you made on Thursday, and it's a rare one: usually, we see the compatibility index in the high eighties, but with the two of you, it was a ninety-eight point six out of a hundred. Nobody gets a hundred."

"You're not hearing me, are you?" John asks, rapidly losing patience. "You lot paired me up with a _bloke_. So, those calculations must be invalid."

There's a sound of quick typing at the other end. "Your Kinsey reading's five-point six, so there's nothing impossible about a male-male match."

"But doesn't it count what _I_ actually want?"

"The System is not based on perceived want, but compatibility and need. Think of it like a doctor-patient relationship – you're supposed to get what you need and what's evidence-based, not what you think you fancy. The algorithm is based on what complements you, what motivates you and what you find sexually desirable."

This sounds like a memorised sales pitch. It doesn't mean anything since John has _not_ been thinking about Sherlock Holmes' lips on his own. The memory may flit by on a regular basis, but it's just an idle thing in his head, a bit like an earworm. He doesn't _want_ to think about Sherlock Holmes' lips on his own, digging his fingers into his soft curls and he most decidedly does not want to think about the way it had felt to press himself against----

"Look, mate," the young guy on the other end of the line says to John, "you're not the first person to make a call like this. This is what The System does: it strips away the bullshit and gives us what we need."

"But the other person got told they had a perfect match, too, and it was their first relationship, so it's got to be wrong! Nobody gets the final one instantly!"

More typing. "Your match was made nineteen seconds after that person's initial data scans were logged on to the system – that was only three minutes after he joined The System. Further relationship simulations which the System uses to pair people up – all ninety-five million of them – all gave the same result. While it's true that nearly all of our clients go through several relationships before a match is made, it seems that this guy, Holmes, is quite exceptional in the sense that no amount of exposure to other people would have recalibrated The System's recommendation. It was always going to be you, mate. I'm sorry if that's not what you expected, but there's nothing I can do. A few people have tried to sue us to get re-matched, but that User Agreement has proven pretty damned solid."

John drops down onto the sofa, exhaling with a huff as he tries not to explode into shouting. He had queued on the line for four hours until getting to talk to someone. A taped announcement had said that they only had two persons handling all the complaints because there were so few of them. "If nobody complains, how come it took you four bloody hours to answer the phone? That just proves that there must have been a fuck-up."

A chortle. "Took me four hours, because I wasn't here. Nobody ever calls because nobody ever complains."

"Just reset it, and you can go back to not doing your damn job," John demands. "Just click the damned button. I bet no one will know."

"No rematches, unless there's a technical problem. You only get the one."

John's head is going to explode any minute now. "I told you. It can't be him. Reset it."

"I actually did, right after you called, and the result is still the same."

"Then _fuck you_!"

John rings off and slams his phone face-down on a decorative pillow. Leah had bought him seven of them, and he hates the whole pile. What the hell is he supposed to even do with more than one or two?

This is all he gets, then – four so-so or disastrous matches. And Sherlock. At least he hasn't paid for any of this, and having received a stupid match means that he won't be charged a penalty if he never sets foot in the Compound again.

It's over.

It's over, and it didn't work.

It's back to the dating pool of old-fashioned idiots, misfits and other rejects who haven't found anyone through the System or are too paranoid to do this.

He tries to convince himself he can do this. He used to be good at it. It's just that it had been in the morning news that seventy-four percent of unmarried Britons were now members of The System.

Maybe Sherlock would be glad, in that snooty way of his, that John is stuck in such a romantic limbo. Except that Sherlock is there voluntarily.

_Don't think about him. His existence is the reason it all went to hell._

_Don't think about him._

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

John does get on with his life. He goes to work, catches up with some friends. Most are in the process or have found their match. Some of them know John had tried the System. He just tells them he's part of the less than two percent or failures.

Sometimes he wonders if that truly sounds better than being paired up with a guy.

Sometimes, when he sits alone in the darkness of his flat, he wonders if it _was_ a mistake, after all. That's when he tries to convince himself that he's only thinking like this because he's getting desperate.

He watches couples in restaurants, listens to his mates talk about their significant others.

He _wants_.

He doesn't even know what, but he does.

He goes to work, comes home, and wants something he doesn't have, and there's a nagging sense that he's had a glimpse of that very thing, but he chose to turn away.

 

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

 **From:** john.watson@brookerstreetclinic.uk  
**To:** sherlock.holmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
**Subject:** remember me??  
**Message:**  
You were right. It doesn't work. I thought you might like to know that.  
Have a nice life, John W.

  
**From:** john.watson@brookerstreetclinic.uk  
**To:** sherlock.holmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
**Subject:** re: remember me??  
**Message:**  
They couldn't fix it. They won't match me again because they can't even find what's wrong with their system. That's how broken it is.  
John Watson

  
**From:** john.watson@brookerstreetclinic.uk  
**To:** sherlock.holmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
**Subject:** re: re: remember me??  
**Message:**  
I'm sorry. Maybe something about my profile, my whatever personality points or something I typoed in the forms was what caused the glitch. Maybe they could still rematch you. I don't know if you contacted them. Don't let my griping put you off from seeing if there's still something for you out there.  
John

  
**From:** sherlock.holmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
**To:** john.watson@brookerstreetclinic.uk  
**Subject:** The point being?  
**Message:**  
I doubt you'll believe me, but I do not glean personal joy from the misfortunes of others. I'm sorry you didn't find what you were looking for, but beyond offering my grievances, I don't know what I could possibly do for you.  
SH

  
**From:** john.watson@brookerstreetclinic.uk  
**To:** sherlock.holmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
**Subject:** Re: The point being?  
**Message:**  
maybe that brother of yours could fix the system  
J

  
**From:** sherlock.holmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
**To:** john.watson@brookerstreetclinic.uk  
**Subject:** Re: Re: The point being?  
**Message:**  
As far as my brother is concerned, The System is perfect. I received a wedding invitation in the mail yesterday. It made passable kindling.  
SH

  
**From:** sherlock.holmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
**To:** john.watson@brookerstreetclinic.uk  
**Subject:** Re: Re: Re: The point being?  
**Message:**  
are YOU happy?

  
**From:** sherlock.holmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk  
**To:** john.watson@brookerstreetclinic.uk  
**Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Re: The point being?  
**Message:** What is it that you are trying to achieve by contacting me and sounding like a fortune cookie?  
SH

  
John deletes the reply he had been typing. He can't decide whether Sherlock being prickly is just Sherlock being Sherlock or if this is Sherlock never wanting anything to do with him again.

Why would he?

It didn't mean anything, the fact that they met because they were matched up by some computer system John is trusting less and less as time passes.

It's his new mantra: _it didn't mean anything_. So, why had he felt so compelled to google Sherlock's name? Sherlock's question is a valid one. What does he want? Does he want the employ a consulting detective to solve this, since the man is supposedly so bloody clever? This isn't one of his cases, even if he had made love sound like a mystery he really wanted to crack wide open, dissect and present the results as the ultimate evidence to debunk match-making?

No one has explained to John why this would happen to the two of them of all people. And, he is still having a hard time defining what _this_ is, exactly.

Did he get mismatched, and the unfair System cast him out like trash? Or did he effectively send away... his perfect match? And, why does that dilemma haunt him even when Sherlock Holmes won't ever want to see him again?

Then again, he did reply to several e-mails.

John has tried googling people who never found their match or got stuck with the wrong one. Either they are shutting up about it, or there truly are very few of them. Or, maybe someone is wiping the internet clean of such dissidents. Maybe it's Sherlock's brother.

The thought that this will be their last communication is unbearable in a way John cannot fathom.

The facts are: a match had been made right after Sherlock's genome, health records, psychological profile, educational records, all of his internet and mobile activity logs and his answers from a set of exhaustive questionnaires had been entered into the system.

The System thinks it didn't need to know anything more about Sherlock; that for him, there was only John.  
  


-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

The season changes, almost reluctantly as a heatwave temporarily smothers London in humidity.

Leaves fall.

John goes to work. John gets off work. Time passes, though not in any memorable manner.

John tries his best to find consolation in routine, but he feels like the life he's trying to make for himself is choking him at night.

On the first of December, everything changes.

There's a text message. It says: ' _221B Baker Street. This Saturday. I solved it._ _SH_ '

John nearly drops his phone in his eagerness to reply: ' _Solved what????'_

Minutes pass, and no reply materialises. Maybe it had taken all of Sherlock's courage to text him after such a long time. John wants to pray that it hasn't entirely run out yet.

Then again, Sherlock doesn't seem like a man who shies away from a challenge. Unless it's about romance.

Could this be a test? During some of his darker hours, nursing a glass of whiskey, John has wondered if Sherlock could be some sort of an agent who works _for_ the system, and this is all some kind of a test on how resilient John is? Then again, wouldn't someone have mentioned this if it's something they do to everyone who's about to be matched? It's getting pathetic, really, the way he has been holding on to hope.

He had his chance. And he blew it.

Or did he?

Finally, a message chimes in: _'Well? SH_ '

John has nothing to lose. He realises he never did.

He replies: _'I'll be there._ _John'_

He doesn't expect further communique, but one more text makes the phone dance on his palm: _'Could be dangerous. SH'_

John stares at the words on the screen and wishes he could be looking into sea-glass -cradled irises instead.

God, yes.

 _Yes_.  


 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wish to get a few glimpses of the compound, check out [the trailer of the _Black Mirror_ episode](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e5N_Tq1EtRQ). It contains no spoilers regarding this fic.


	4. Love Is A Stranger

 

> _And when the crowd becomes your burden_  
>  _And you've closed your curtains_  
>  _I'll wait by the backstage door_  
>  – Fiona Apple

  
An old, heavy brass knocker adorns to door to 221 Baker Street. To John's surprise, an elderly woman opens the door after he uses it, shooing him inside.

She points upstairs. "He's in. Mind you; I think he's been in a bit of a strop lately; keeps pacing all night. I hope you've brought a good one," she says thoughtfully.

"Brought a what?"

"A _case_ , of course!" she states as though it's really quite obvious. She then forcibly drags John's coat off his shoulders and hangs it on an old rack by the front door.

"Go on, then," she prompts next, and John begins climbing the stairs to what is presumably flat B.

Maybe he _has_ brought a case, after all. Maybe he _is_ the case.

Sherlock flings the door open just as John sets his foot on the last step.

"Right on time," Sherlock remarks and steps aside to let John in.

Had he been listening in to John talking to the old lady? How else would he have known when to open the door? They hadn't set a precise time. They'd just agreed on the day. Has Sherlock been sitting around all morning, waiting for him?

John discreetly tries to survey the flat. It's cluttered, but not with the sorts of things one would usually expect to find at a bachelor pad. No, this is esoteric stuff: a taxidermied bat, a skull, antique books, scientific journals, small vials of what looks like ash, a distillation set bubbling in the kitchen with a bunsen burner heating a part of it; a strange contraption fashioned out of chicken wire and what looks like old socks.

There's also the violin Sherlock had mentioned, on a chair next to a music stand.

John realises that, while Sherlock is wearing a suit, he's barefoot. John had meticulously picked an outfit for himself that would look as much like something one would _not_ wear for a date as possible. He hadn't put on aftershave. He hadn't _shaved_. He's not here to woo anyone, is he?

Then again: what _is_ he here for?

"Tea?" Sherlock asks hastily, flits to the kitchen and starts opening cupboard doors. "It was--- _ha_!" he declares triumphantly and fishes a tin box out of one. He peers into the box, and his nose crunches in disapproval. "Oh, well." Out to the landing, he then goes. "Mrs _Hudson_!"

"Not your housekeeper," she chimes cheerily from downstairs; John can hear pots and pans clattering. "But since you've got a customer--- just this once, dear."

"For the hundredth time; they are not customers, they are _clients_!"

"I'm not a---" John protests, but Sherlock waves him off and goes back to the kitchen.

"May I sit down?" John asks, feeling as though he's developing whiplash from watching Sherlock whizzing about the flat. Is this how to normally behaves at home, with people he is not on a date with, or is he nervous?

"Yes, yes, of course," Sherlock relents and goes to stand next to a chair himself. "I believe it's customary to ask how you have been."

"Do you care?" John asks, grinning. Anyone who has to provide such commentary regarding the usual sorts of social niceties probably doesn't.

"Perhaps I should rephrase: I assume you are still mourning the loss of that final relationship which never got to begin. Did your complaint eventually get processed?"

John cringes inwardly, remembering what that idle weed at the other end of the line had said to him about Kinsey scales and percentages. "I didn't call them again, so it went nowhere. They essentially said that I had my chance and I blew it."

"They don't publicise the number of people who reject their supposed perfect matches. The 98.2% is for matches _made_ , not people getting married. I checked."

Sherlock sure can make marriage sound like a disease.

John takes over an armchair. It's old and worn but soft, and the Union Jack pillow on it fits behind the small of his back just so. Now that he can see the whole sitting room, it reminds him of their cabin at the Compound. He hadn't realised the staff customise accommodations to that extent. To Sherlock, it must have felt just like home. It had felt like a home to John, too, instead of an impersonal, generic hotel room.

He has that distinct sense of being pulled into something, and there's no use fighting the tide. It feels a bit like getting drunk and kissing someone. "You said you solved something?" he prompts.

Sherlock clasps his hands behind his back and goes to stand in front of a bookcase instead of a chair. "That rosy, dangerous naivety with which you believe that there's someone out there for everyone, from where does it come? Fairytales? From the marriage of your parents?"

"Lots of people believe it; not that there's just The One for someone, but that there are so many people that at least one of them's found to be compatible with you."

"It never mattered to me, what _people_ believe," Sherlock says, and he makes the word 'people' sound very much like an insult, "---until I found myself caring about what _you_ think, and that doesn't make any sense. You rejected me, so the logical thing would have had to counter-reject anything you may have said or represented. Most people find me off-putting, and generally, I do not care about that, because most people are idiots. So, why was I offended when a firmly closeted bisexual expecting a female date did not like me at first?"

"Oi!" John protests. "Don't start throwing those sorts of theories around. You don't know me."

"And you did not know me, yet I wanted you to like me? Why? And what are you doing even doing here? Am I the only person, or literally the last person available in your life to talk to about this, or was it just curiosity that brought you here?"

"Maybe I thought we're in the same boat."

"Now you're just insulting my intelligence."

"That's not difficult to do, is it?"

"We were never in the same boat. That is until you pulled me into yours. It was an oversimplification, saying that I have solved this. I may have come to a conclusion regarding the system's functionality, but in the grander scheme of things that solves nothing."

"What do you mean?" John wishes he had some of that tea. It helps, having a warm, round thing to curls fingers around. It's distracting in a good way, like a blanket to hide under, and he would very much like to hide from the piercing gaze currently honed in on him.

 _Could be dangerous_. And here he is.

"You were--- intense? Interesting, I guess?" John attempts to explain, but these things sound like excuses in his own years. "You told me, flat out, that what I thought I wanted is not what I really want. Maybe I decided to stick around out of annoyance to prove you wrong after that? What I'm doing here is for you to tell me, I guess since you say have at least some of this worked out. All I know is that I should have walked away, and you should have told me to sod off instead of replying to my emails. You still could. Go on. Do it, if my opinion should really mean so little to you."

"As I explained, it's not that simple. You somehow managed to do what countless others have failed at – you instilled _doubt_ in me. I felt _doubt_. That is highly unusual."

"Doubt about what?"

Sherlock leans against the window sill, crosses his arms. "Why would you, and everyone else, choose the pain and rejection and loss and false hope of love? Don't you ever feel suffocated by it, all the expectations and the assigned relationships and the trying and the putting up with things that others do which annoy you? I don't think that sort of conformism fits your _profile_."

"My _profile_? What am I, a serial killer?"

"Highly unlikely. If you were the sort to take what you're given and to be happy with it, why would you join the army? Why would you kiss me? Why would you be standing here, right now? Would someone like you have ever doubted the choice The System had made during the dark moments of that perfectly matched relationship you suspect you were deprived of? Could you promise that person that doubt wouldn't fester in you as well?"

John doesn't have an answer.

The old lady living downstairs breaks their uncomfortable and frustrated silence by bringing in tea and scones. John wonders what her relationship to Sherlock is. Aunt? Godmother?

He must've been frowning and looking at her intently because Sherlock says: "Landlady."

"And you should remember that, young man. Just this once," she reminds them both as she pours the tea and John feels scolded even though he's the visitor. "I'm not your housekeeper," she adds.

Sherlock's eyes follow her until she putters back down the stairs. Only then does he continue speaking. "I hoped you would walk away, effectively making my decision for me, but then you contacted me, and I felt that sliver of that doubt again and _I.don't.like.it_ ," he hisses like a rattlesnake.

He then starts pacing. "At first, I thought your insistence on changing my opinion was just pity and a giddy sort of need to spread your saccharine happiness over your expected perfect match. But, it clearly became more. You just couldn't let it go, could you, the choices I have made in my life? I thought initially that you just wanted me to believe the same as you, that you were like some recent religious convert to whom all who don't share their convictions are a personal insult, but through careful analysis, I realised that was not the case."

"Through careful analysis of what?"

"Your behaviour."

"I was drunk."

"Yes, quite."

"I don't mean everything I say when I'm drunk. I hope it's not news to you that people don't."

"We use alcohol as a social lubricant, and sometimes it acts like a truth serum, revealing our priorities. Sometimes we drink because we want an excuse to do something we feel inhibited to act on otherwise. In those situations, alcohol strips away all the socially conditioned nonsense we hide behind. The strange thing is that the thing you were hiding behind sarcasm and confidence borne out of sexual experience was----"

John expects another barb at his acclaimed closetedness. Or at least another insult.

"---kindness," Sherlock concludes. "And I did not expect such a thing. I was... intrigued."

" _Kindness_?"

"Why would you want those things for me, John? Why would you want to believe I deserved them as much as you do?"

"Everyone needs someone. A person. And it's highly likely there is such a----person for everyone," John stammers. He's just wasting words, not actually managing to say anything important.

"Which brings us to the System. And to our first encounter. To you, I was a shock. To me, you were... admittedly a surprise but within reason, in terms of quality."

" _Excuse_ _me_?"

"You dress below your educational level and intelligence. But, your confidence makes up for that. You're ordinary; I'm extraordinary. It seemed unlikely that we could be a match."

John knows that he should say the words ' _right, I'll be off then, you tosser'_ , but instead he grabs another scone.

"Then I consulted the appropriate literature, and it seems that the adage that opposites attract might have some evidence behind it. Individuals who complement each other seem to be more likely to achieve longevity in relationships. It appears that the worst possible match just might be someone very similar to oneself."

"You always make it sound like someone hoping that they might find someone to share their life with is like hoping they'd catch bubonic plague. What are you so afraid of? Doesn't it occur to you that sometimes it actually works out between people, that they get what they want? They get married. They're happy."

"Why would you want those things for me, John? Why the hell would you care? Why not just walk away? Your behaviour made a modicum of sense or at least was dismissible until the kiss. I tried to think it was the alcohol lowering your inhibitions and making you want to prove you are not homophobic but it's the kindness that does not compute. It doesn't fit with playing with fire for one last time or giving me the foreplay equivalent of a pity fuck. It doesn't fit with the fact that you're here, now. If I have miscalculated, and you're here just for peer support, then do tell me before I make a complete fool out of myself," Sherlock pleads.

 _Make a fool out of himself.... how?_ John wonders. What is it that Sherlock is trying to say without actually saying it out loud? "No. I'm not here just because of that. Can't it be just what you said, kindness? I was a bit... rude to you, at first. I wanted to make sure no lasting damage was done. I also thought that you deserved to know that I don't believe in the System anymore, either, if it can chew people up and toss them out like this."

"People apologise when they feel they have perpetrated a social gaffe instead of going around kissing others. You were not rude, in comparison to some other people I have encountered and who have not enjoyed encountering me."

"What did you mean when you said that you solved it?"

"You won't like what I have to say."

"That's hardly anything new."

Sherlock purses his lips and cocks his head slightly to the side in agreement. "The System _does_ work. I realised what its deciding factor in determining a perfect match is."

"A complex mathematical algorithm?"

"Certainly, but what is the aim of that algorithm? What result is it trying to achieve by changing the variables?"

"Love?"

"No. You cannot calculate love. Too complex, too unpredictable. Too fickle. Too abstract. Too undefinable. It's not just the sum of hormones and personality traits. No: what the System calculates is a probability."

" _For_ love?"

"No. God, what it must be like in your funny little brain." Sherlock rolls his eyes, seeming to be rapidly losing faith in John's intellect. "What it calculates is the probability that a person might motivate the individual being matched to want to _buck the system_. To take a chance. To not care about an expiration date. To not care whether the match is perfect or not."

John is sceptical. "How does that work?"

"Most people are not matched until their fourth or fifth relationship. Those preceding relationships will breed cynicism, impatience and yes, fear and doubt regarding whether they will be in the 1.8%. Most people will be matched without a need to want to break the rules, but for those with the highest probability of a _happy ever after_ , the ones whose matching percentages are the highest, a shared experience of breaking the rules – including the illusion that they are the ones making a choice and not the computer – is key."

"How'd you work that out?"

"You were ripe for the picking after four obviously deeply unsatisfactory relationships, and it's highly likely you were never going to be happy in the long-term with someone who would only help you fulfil trite, normal expectations of this society in how a heterosexual male should behave. I was matched on my first try because I was ready to challenge the System right from the start. Perhaps the only part of that algorithm that needs tweaking is how it takes into account the possibility of a sexual identity crisis. Then again, even if it took some time... here you are."

John blinks, licks jam off his thumb and feels awfully self-conscious doing so. "What you're saying is that the match was not a mistake – that I'm just fighting against it out of not wanting to accept that you're a man."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"You're saying that not only are we a match; we are an exceptionally good one? That I should believe everything they told me on the phone?"

"Are you familiar with Occam's Razor?"

John does know the Medieval scientific axiom that the simplest explanation is most often the right one. In this case, it would mean that everything they went through happened because there _isn't_ a mistake.

He nods, slowly, feeling as though this small gesture shifts something monumental in him. There are also some old alarm bells ringing, but they are quieter than they had been at the Compound. They're more of a distant ambient noise now instead of something that threatens to drown out everything else.

Sherlock looks like the cat that has caught a mouse. "Good. That means you just might be able to look at the evidence and come to the same conclusion as I have." He sighs. "I still don't possess all the necessary information yet. No computer system can perfectly predict human behaviour. As I said, that algorithm might need some tweaking."

John can sense this is all building up to something that makes his armpits go moist with nervousness and his stomach is fluttering in anticipation. He hasn't felt like this since he'd been a ruddy teenager.

Sherlock bites his lip and retreats to sit on the coffee table after shoving some papers off it. "What I must know is this: am I a consolation prize? Are you tempted to take what you're given, since you never got the match you think you wanted and deserved? Or--- are you here because---" he trails out, frowning and obviously second-guessing whether he wants to say it, after all.

John opens his mouth even though it hasn't connected to his brain yet. "Sherlock, I----"

Sherlock is ignoring him and appears to have decided that he isn't done: "No. I would have assumed that judging by your initial, intensely adverse reaction to my gender, you wouldn't be willing to overlook it. I was certain that I would never hear from you again, that you would go back to traditional dating. But, then you messaged me, and the doubt returned. Tell me I'm wrong," he adds, and it's not a challenge. He sounds almost as if he's pleading. "Are you here because other roads are closed or because you... want to be here?" he averts his gaze, shoulders dropping a little as though bracing for something unpleasant. He smooths a crease on his trousers, then his mouth tightens, and he looks at John again. "I wanted to walk away from that weekend with my point proven, but you haunt my steps, John Watson. I cannot stop asking ' _what if'_ , and I tried to hate you for it with little success. I cannot ever know for certain if the hope you have introduced me to is pointless, but it seems that my mind can't let go of it. It's a divide by zero scenario, a dog chasing its own tail; this could be anything and nothing, and it puts everything in error mode, and I had to see you as if that could even solve anything. I did not anticipate that looking at you right now is only making things more complicated. I cannot deduce what you want, so you must tell me."

"So you expected my showing up here to magically put you off so that you could forget this whole thing?" John chuckles incredulously.

Sherlock raises a frustrated palm, then lets it flop on his knee. "I don't _know_."

John has to let the man out of his misery by saying something. This is getting cruel, and he certainly owes Sherlock that much for his initial reaction. "I think... I had to see you for the same reason. Doubt, I guess. A possibility that it wasn't all a mistake. I thought I had a choice when I---- shut down _that_ part of me. I thought that the System would see that and somehow respect my choice." He laughs, but there's no amusement in the sound. It's hollow and bitter and full of things he has tried to contain. Tried to, until Sherlock Holmes walked up to his table in the Compound restaurant. "I guess it does see through our bullshit," John says.

Sherlock nods. "I stupidly believed, just as you did, that The System would have equal respect for my choices – that it would see the parts of me _I_ had wanted to delete, that it would repeatedly pair me up with someone who I could ignore, who I could feel nothing about, and then tell me there was no match. That would have fit the pattern of my life before joining. But, the very first one turned out to be you, with your identity crisis and the normality you thought you desired. I was confused when you were inadvertently flirting with me and simultaneously consciously very much trying to avoid doing so. Then you kissed me," Sherlock breathes out with astonished wonder. Judging by his expression, the memory is not unpleasant at all.

It twists a knot in John's windpipe how incredulous he seems that another human being would ever want to do such a thing. Does Sherlock not see himself in the mirror the way others do? God, the man is _gorgeous_. He may be a righteous prick, but he's, well, utterly stunning in John's opinion and if John needs to let _that_ part of him out to prove it to Sherlock then so be it. Surely it's more important to tell someone they're not useless and unlovable than to hold on to something old and toxic?

John doesn't think that his desire to live the life of a straight man has ever left collateral damage before. Well, there was James, but----

John puts down his teacup, squares his shoulders. "I'm here because I can't get you out of my head. And I think it means something. I don't know what, but it has to mean something."

Sherlock nods. "A part of me didn't want even to care why you kissed me – all that mattered was that you did and that I wanted it. You kissed me, and I couldn't _not_ see it: that you were more than the normality and harmlessness you still try to project."

Why does that feel like one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to John? Why does it make him feel like he can breathe, a little, that he could be _more_? "I think you're massively overthinking this. What if you wanted to try this, not only because you wanted to spite your brother, but because you were at least a little bit curious if there was someone out there for you? If you truly didn't believe the system worked, _you_ could have refused to come back to the cabin with me. You could have stayed away. For all your righteous posturing, _you_ were curious."

Sherlock sighs, and it's the sigh of a man caught in the act.

"So, do we believe The System worked, or it didn't?" John asks.

"We don't have to decide. We could just risk it – to find out the old-fashioned way," Sherlock suggests carefully, obviously still fearing rejection. "All we need is for you to recalibrate your assumptions of how this is supposed to work, and for me to recalibrate my assumption that no method ever would produce results when I am one of the variables."

John looks at him. Looks at him in his posh suit that obviously is intended as body armour against everything John currently represents, surveys his luscious curls, makes another note of his bare feet with the toes curling against a worn antique rug, glances around this flat that's the oddest and nicest place he has been in. Looks at this strange man, who tries to solve love like a mathematical equation.

Then again, isn't that exactly what the System is all about?

There's hope and danger crackling in the air, and it's so much better than the forced blandness of those assigned relationships, John decides. It's _more_.

Truth be told, he did always hate the routine: going to the cabin or the room, awkward conversation, sex out of assumption and obligation, settling into a lukewarm union forced upon him until the Console chimed zero. He had thrown his Console into the Thames a week after Sherlock's final e-mail. Glancing around, he notices the pieces of Sherlock's Console on the window sill he had been standing in front of. It has been dismantled as though it's an insect to be pinned up and studied. It makes sense that Sherlock would analyse it as carefully as he has tried to analyse their odd weekend.

Nothing about Sherlock makes sense, and somehow that makes John feel more comfortable than anything else ever has.

"You were talking about wanting to disobey the system," John says, "you said that a perfect match would make people want to do that."

"Yes."

"I want to do that."

It would be giving the algorithm the finger – getting a perfect match and rejecting that fact, opting to find his way. _Their_ own way. "We could start with something easy," John adds. "Something that's more us. Whatever that is."

"Something easy. Something simple. Something that's not paint-by-numbers." Sherlock muses, his eyes narrowed to slits for a moment. "I like that," he decides.

John swallows down the last of the excellent tea. He wonders if it would be terribly presumptuous of him to set a match to the logs in the fireplace. Or to kiss Sherlock again. Maybe they're not quite at that stage yet, but John is certain he would enjoy the journey there.

Sherlock's phone chimes and he whips it out of his pocket. "Oh."

"What is it?" John asks, not that it's any of his business.

"Apparently Lestrade has left my brother's bed for long enough to land a case. As usual, the Met is out of its depth."

He goes to don his coat and to dig out a pair of socks from his left shoe and put them on. The shoes then follow.

John pushes himself up from the chair. The air is no longer crackling with anything else than a sense of him having overstayed his welcome. "Right, I'll be off, then," he declares.

Sherlock practically flinches. "Oh. I didn't mean--- I do want to continue our conversation, or whatever it was you were suggesting. I want to have other conversations with you, besides this one."

His hand, about to slip into a glove, stops as he seems to be thinking hard. "Anderson's on forensics, and he's stopped talking to me. Could use your medical expertise. Perhaps it's not what you expected, regarding something easy and simple---"

"Do those words ever describe you?"

"I suppose not." Sherlock finishes putting on his gloves, then flexes his fingers and curls them into fists to ensure a proper fit.

John watches his hands. He's allowed to watch such things, now. It feels odd and deliciously dangerous and why has it not occurred to him before how much he wants to do so?

Sherlock runs a hand under the curls at the nape of his neck to lift them on top of the collar of his coat. It and the gloves and his schooled posture should make him look alienating, but instead, John wants to pierce that bubble of aloofness. Somehow, he feels as though he's being invited to do so.

Challenged?

Seduced?

"Would you care to accompany me to the scene of a hopefully very gruesome murder?" Sherlock asks, and it sounds like an invitation to a date.

" _God_ , yes."

Sherlock passes John his coat and flashes a triumphant smile. "Let us go buck the system, then."

 

**\----– The End –----**

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all you wonderful readers who have made this journey hilarious, enjoyable and interesting. I must give a special nod to Fangirl_says and disaronnus for their tandem livebloggery featuring fainting couches, askew!Watson and outstanding cheerleading for our two idiots.
> 
> I received an interesting question on tumblr which explores the System's logic in some detail. [ Here's a link](http://jbaillier.tumblr.com/post/170224076235/hi-ive-been-reading-and-enjoying-your-new-fic>) for those fancying a bit of meta.
> 
> Chapter title borrowed from Eurythmics.
> 
> Up next in the J. Baillier catalogue of fic: 
> 
>  


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